Snow Angels
by Tynesider
Summary: Bentley has hit a low, but there is someone there to pick him up. OneShot.


When you lived in a land made entirely of ice you had to accept the fact that each day would only bring freezing cold. Bentley had no problems with this arrangement, but on certain days he wished the weather could be more...forgiving, for need of a better word. He had no problems with the hazardous gales and ice when he was in an alright mood, but why oh why did it have to be like that when his scowl was as bitter as the cold? Why couldn't the weather read his mood and ease off a little when he was down? All he asked was a bit of calm from Mother Nature when he wasn't in top form as it might make edgeways in improving his mood, yet his request was never heeded. Maybe it was karma for all of the creatures he had smashed the brains out of over the years, but no matter why it happened he hated it. Hated it with an intensity that could melt the ice on which he stood.

He watched the blizzard from the partial safety of a balcony, perched on the edge of a chair and polishing his heavily scratched club. The cold didn't affect him and neither did the snow, it was the sheer cheek of the weather to take a turn for the worse when he started feeling gloomy. All week the skies had been clear, but now with his self-esteem in the gutter the snowstorms had returned with a vengeance. Coincidence? In Bentley's eyes, no chance.

He turned his attention back to his club, averting his eyes from the allure of negativity. Its surface was coated in scratches; notches cutting rough edges into the elegant crystal. It had been a long time since it had shone, but with little else to do today Bentley was determined to restore it to its former beauty: it put his mind elsewhere.

He heard the gentle sound of footprints in the snow and sighed.

"Bartholomew, what do you want?" he snapped, not looking away from his club.

"I've lost my ball!" the younger yeti whined, his high voice grating against Bentley's ears, "Help me find it!"

"The magic word, Bartholomew," Bentley sighed again.

"Help me find my ball _please_."

"No."

Bartholomew blinked like he'd been slapped in the face.

"What do you mean, no?"

"No, I will not help you find your ball. Now go away."

Bartholomew inched forward and seated himself in the snow at Bentley's side, looking up at his elder brother in confusion.

"Why not?"

"I'm busy."

"You're never busy."

"Well I am today, now go amuse yourself."

Bartholomew didn't budge. He had spent years manipulating his older brother and he didn't intend to give up that easily.

"But Bentley..." he whined, revisiting a stage of his life he had grown out of some time ago, "If I don't have my ball then I can't!"

"You've got loads of other toys! Play with them for a change!" Bentley growled, raising his voice to a level he thought would deter his sibling. His act, however, had the opposite effect, and made Bartholomew dig deeper into Bentley's frayed nerves.

"Something's wrong with you," Bartholomew announced, "You're in a mood."

"Ahh, the Professor makes another earth-shattering discovery!" Bentley hissed. Not once had he glanced at his brother during this exchange, but with little else working he wasn't ruling out a fierce glare to scare him away just yet.

"Yeah, you're in a mood!" Bartholomew grinned, "That's what Mum used to call it! When you'd get really angry with her and hide in your room for days on end!"

"Shut up."

"It was really funny!"

"Bartholomew, if you don't silence yourself you'll make me do something I'll regret."

"I remember it clearly..."

He was about to launch into an impression of his moody brother, complete with adolescent skulk, when he noticed the shadow. He looked up to see Bentley on his feet, towering over him, and in his hand he held his club, yielded in the same way he used when encountering an enemy. For a fleeting moment he stared in ignorance, then it sunk in: Bentley was going to hit him. Not with his fists like he did when a squabble got out of hand, he was going to whack him one with the club – the club he used to smash open Rhynoc skull. He felt a whimper escape his lips and he shrunk into the snow. He had stoked the fire too generously and now it was branching out of the hearth.

"Sorry," he squeaked, but from Bentley's merciless glare he could see that a word of apology wouldn't save him now.

Except that it did. He saw sanity flicker for a moment in those evil eyes, and that brief flash saved him from becoming a bloody pulp in the snow.

"Oh..." Bentley whispered, raising his free hand to his head in disbelief, "Oh my...what am I doing?" he dropped his club and pulled his brother out of the snow, "I must apologise, that was horrific of me. Are you okay?"

"I...I think so," Bartholomew replied, lip still quivering out of fear, "I think I need a lie down though."

Bentley lifted Bartholomew into his chair and knelt at his side, his raised brow emanating guilt.

"Can I do anything else for you?"

Bartholomew became aware that he was shaking, but not from the cold. He looked up at his brother again, hunting for words to say, but his trembling figure inspired Bentley to take the lead.

"How about a drink?" he said, "I think I have some cocoa somewhere..."

"Why were you in a mood?" Bartholomew said. He recoiled slightly at his own question, surprised that his mouth had acted of its own accord, but if his reaction was bad then Bentley's was much worse.

The elder yeti looked to the floor and grunted. He lifted his hands and placed them on the wooden chair, his claws effortlessly scratching the varnish. Bartholomew's quivering grew more frantic as he feared another bad reaction from his bulky brother, but his fears were relieved by Bentley looking up again and sighing.

"Bartholomew," he said, "I'm afraid you'll find my reason for being so downbeat rather silly. If you were a little older you would probably understand my pain easily, but being as young as you are I'm afraid you won't see my predicament the way I see it.

"Why though?" Bartholomew asked, determined to squeeze an answer out of his brother.

"Well..." Bentley said, rolling his eyes as he hunted for a way to present his answer, "Let's just say that kangaroos are quite blunt."

Bartholomew didn't have a clue what it meant, but he left it at that. After whipping his sibling into a storm beforehand he didn't want to aggravate him any further than he already had. "Now," Bentley continued, "Would you like some hot chocolate?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"Well, is there anything else you want?"

"Yeah. I want you to make a snow angel."  
"Pardon?"

"I want you to make a snow angel."

Bentley stood still for a moment, frozen in confusion.

"May I ask why?"

"You'll see once you do it."

Bentley paused for a moment longer, then shrugged and lay down in the snow. He began to move his arms and legs, brushing the snow aside to create the instantly recognisable figure of an angel. Only after five strokes of his limbs did he realise that someone else was lying in the snow beside him, copying his repetitive motions.

"How do you feel now?" Bartholomew asked.

"Should I feel any different?"

"Yes."

Bentley lay back and moved his arms and legs a few more times. As he dug himself deeper into the snow he became sheltered from the blizzard above, and without the flecks of ice battering his face he began to relax. He was suddenly aware of the rhythmic movements he was making, and how the gentle brushing of freezing snow against his fur sent delectable shivers down his spine. For the first time in many hours he smiled, and that first step was all he needed to propel him out of his millpond of misery.

What happened next was all a blur, but when Bentley returned to his senses he found himself in the midst of an intense snowball fight with his brother. The blizzard battered his face and blocked the sight of incoming snowballs, but he was laughing uncontrollably as each blow left sore patches on his skin. This was everything he needed; an antidote to adult life, something to take away the continuous pain of being self-sufficient. Children didn't have to look after themselves and that was what made being around them so great: they were always having fun, and fun was infectious. If it weren't for his irritating little brother he'd still be wallowing in self-pity instead of having the time of his life. Out in a blizzard too, the sort of weather he associated with uncontrollable depression. Maybe they weren't so bad after all, but then maybe life wasn't so bad either. As long as there was someone like Bartholomew at his side, he would do just fine.


End file.
